The Albatross Around Your Neck
by radialarch
Summary: Mycroft's weakness is Sherlock. / Scene from 'The Reichenbach Fall'. Second-person POV. One-shot.


**Title: **The Albatross around Your Neck

**Disclaimer: **These characters belong to lovely people, but unfortunately not me.

**Spoilers: **_The Reichenbach Fall._

**Pairings: **None.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings: **Allusion to (violent) interrogation?

**Wordcount: **940

**Summary: **Mycroft's weakness is Sherlock.

_A/N: The title references Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", in which the albatross is a reminder of guilt._

* * *

><p>[THE DIOGENES CLUB]<p>

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, you and Jim?"

John's voice is bitterly sarcastic. _Trust issues_, you think. After everything is done – and you fervently believe you'll all get through everything, in the end – the doctor may never speak to you again.

Back to the CCTVs, then.

But how to answer the question? "I never inten—I never dreamt—" you start. Not the whole truth, no, but enough of it to serve as an apology, perhaps.

"How did you meet him?" Tightly coiled anger, anger you deserve.

"People like him: we know about them; we watch them."

What will John think now? That you're the kind of person to sell out your own brother for a bit of state business?

Let him think that. How much worse is that from the truth, really?

* * *

><p>[UNKNOWN LOCATION]<p>

A man exits the cell, his frustration palpable. "It's no use," he bites out. "It's in his eyes – he's not going to talk." The admission must sting; he's one of their best interrogators, has never failed before.

You turn your gaze back to the one-way mirror. James Moriarty is getting up from his chair, carefully shaking out his limbs.

"Has he said _anything_?"

"Just one word, but it doesn't make any sense."

"What?"

"'Sherlock'."

Inside, Moriarty approaches the mirror and deliberately begins tracing an _S_ onto it. The feral grin on his face is unlike anything you've seen before.

You swallow down something that feels a bit like fear. "Let me speak to him."

"But, sir—"

"Now."

* * *

><p>[THE DIOGENES CLUB]<p>

"Interrogated him for weeks."

"And?"

"He wouldn't play along." And they, instead, had all been playing into Moriarty's hands. A man of true talent, Jim Moriarty, deceiving the entire British government.

Deceiving _you_.

But this isn't the time to think about it. Afterwards – because there _will_ be an 'after' – you will talk with Sherlock and acknowledge your guilt, your albatross.

Now is the time for atonement.

Would Sherlock understand why you failed this way? No, he'd call you weak and look away in contempt. He has never quite understood you – never realised the extent of your worry as he willingly hurled himself into danger after danger.

But in front of you John is waiting for – no, _demanding – _an explanation, and you briefly wonder if he can conceive what it is to care for a man like Sherlock.

Of course he does. So you speak.

"The only thing that made him open up – I could get him to talk."

* * *

><p>[INTERROGATION CELL]<p>

It's the first thing they teach you: do not offer any information to the prisoner.

"Mycroft Holmes," you say, then watch Moriarty's eyes light up.

"Sherlock," he breathes, drawing out the syllables almost obscenely. "Tell me about him."

"I'm not here to talk about Sherlock." Does he notice the way you hesitate minutely over the name? "As I understand, you've been rather busy lately. Creative, even."

There's a faint grin at the words, but the man is silent.

"The code," you prompt.

"Why don't we get this straight?" Moriarty sits upright, shoulders squared, and when he next speaks there's a dangerous, _commanding_ edge to his voice. "You've been trying for weeks to get me to talk. Believe me when I say you will not succeed in making me do anything that I don't want to." He suddenly smiles. "But I _can_ be persuaded to trade."

There's no use denying it – Moriarty has the higher ground, and who knows how long he's been there? "You cannot touch Sherlock," you say finally, and perhaps that's when you tip your hand at last.

"You think you can stop me? That's cute. But Sherlock's not on my schedule for today, so you can relax. Just tell me a story."

"About what?"

"About Sherlock. What he was like when he was young. What he liked to do. Little things, that's all I want."

The words come easily to you – Sherlock is always in the back of your mind, after all. "He was always one for experimenting—" you begin, and Moriarty sits back, eyes closed in an unsettling parody of bliss.

* * *

><p>[THE DIOGENES CLUB]<p>

"So one big lie – Sherlock's a fraud – but people _will_ swallow it because the rest of it's true."

Is all the rest true? You suppose it is – you _are_ the one who told it all, but you don't remember that. All you know is that Moriarty had _listened_, and all of your frustrations at having a brilliant, infuriating, self-destructive brother had spilled out. How sometimes it's just so _utterly_ difficult to protect him from others, and even more difficult to protect him from himself. How you can never tell him all that you want to say anymore, reduced to all scripted phrases and careful cadence. How he had worshipped you, once, until he grew too old for religion.

Sherlock even used to trust you, but that's long past.

And as the current circumstances show, maybe you aren't to be trusted, after all.

John stands up to leave, and you suddenly feel compelled to say one last thing. "John. I'm sorry."

He looks at you in disbelief, but it's the truest thing you've ever said.

"Tell him, would you?" _Tell him I was wrong. Tell him I love him. _

* * *

><p><em>Dialogue taken from Ariane DeVere's transcript (who is on LiveJournal, and I would link her except...links. -sigh-).<em>

_Oh, and reviews make my day._


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